


Hearts Adore

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But not like that you perv, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous use of office supplies, He’s so soft tho, M/M, My soft sons, SO FLUFFY, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock gives good massages, They’re both so clueless, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 21:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17413385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: Sherlock stares down at him, and he can’t help but think about how natural it feels to be with him like this.It doesn’t feel right to wake him. So instead, Sherlock carefully guides him backwards, pulling the sleeping man into his lap.There’s a peaceful smile on John’s pink lips, and Sherlock wants to kiss it.But he reminds himself that kissing may be much more than John needs, so he simply wraps his arms around him—like he’s always wanted to do—and he leans his own head against the sofa and falls asleep.





	Hearts Adore

**Author's Note:**

> _I am a moth / who just wants to share your light_  
>  -Radiohead, "All I Need" 
> 
> This fic was originally written as a prompt for Fictober, and included in my collection called "FictoberLock." I liked it a lot, so I decided to snazz it up and post it separately. I changed quite a bit, so if you liked the original, you'll hopefully enjoy this. If you haven't read that one yet, have fun! :)

In the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson is one of the world’s greatest mysteries. And though Sherlock has worked for many years to bring this mystery to a close, it is eternally and wholly left unsolved.

One might assume it would be simple—John, with whom he shares a flat, his work partner and his best friend—but if Sherlock knows anything for sure about John, it’s that he is deceptively and utterly complex.

But Sherlock Holmes has always enjoyed a good mystery.

He loves mysteries he can easily solve, like the robberies and the murders, because they prove what a proper genius he truly is. He loves the mysteries he cannot solve, such as the case of the Morenburg disappearance, because he appreciates being kept on his toes.

John Watson always seems to keep Sherlock Holmes on his toes.

_What is it that you want in life, John Watson? What is it that you need?_

When John returns from whence he came at who-knows-when-o’clock, dark rings around his eyes—what is it that’s wearing him thin? When John wistfully gazes out through the window on a Sunday afternoon, his hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea—what is it that he longs for? When he wakes up with a brightness in his eyes that could light the sky, what is he looking forward to that day? When he yells at Sherlock for the twentieth time in one evening, teeth clenched as hard as his fists, what exactly is he yelling about?

Sherlock would know the answer to that one if he’d been listening, but no matter.

Sherlock’s got to wonder—What thoughts swirl around in John’s brain? Does he think of dates? Dinner? The dentist? All of the above?

John’s not the type to talk about such things.

Neither is Sherlock.

And therefore, the mystery of John Watson remains.

_***_

—Take What You Need—

The words make a dull mark on Sherlock’s psyche as his eyes drift over the bulletin board of a neighbourhood park. It’s early Autumn; the breeze is cool and crisp, and the leaves are raining fiery colours from their branches.

Sherlock glances habitually through in search of his typical fare—missing persons. Unsolved murders. Lost dogs. There is only useless clutter: piano lessons. Automobile repair. Fortune tellers.

But then:

The second time Sherlock reads it, the words catch his eye.

—Take What You Need—

He squints.

They are printed in thick black marker across the top of a bright yellow sheet of paper. Arrows point downwards to individually-cut strips at the bottom of the sheet. Each strip has a single word scrawled onto it—offering a person to symbolically “take” what they might need.

Kindness. Understanding. Passion. Forgiveness. Empathy. Honesty. Laughter. Freedom. Gentleness. Blah. Blah. Blah.

At the far right of the page are a few blank strips of paper, and Sherlock gets a fantastic idea. He takes a writing utensil from his pocket, tears a strip of paper off with a gloat, and writes the word “MURDER.”

“Yes,” he says to himself proudly. “A murder is _exactly_ what I need.”

He drops the paper into his coat pocket and he turns to go. Only then does he notice an elderly woman who stands over his shoulder, regarding him with wide, startled eyes.

“Not to worry,” he says with a nod. “There are plenty more here. Perhaps _you_ can ask for a murder as well.” He grins, burying both of his hands into his coat pocket as he heads home, the leaves on the ground crunching beneath his feet.

  
***  
  
—Take what you need—

~Kindness

That evening, John returns home from the clinic later than usual. Sherlock immediately deduces that one of John’s colleagues had stepped out of the office early (dinner date), leaving John to do all of the paperwork.

Sherlock briefly considers carrying out a murder himself, but decides against it.

“Hey,” John mumbles dully as he treads past Sherlock on the way to his bedroom. “Would you mind calling up and ordering some takeout?” he asks, tossing his keys and wallet onto the coffee table. “I don’t feel like cooking tonight.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest. He hates talking on the phone, and he’s not hungry, and besides—it’s John’s turn to pay. But before he can speak, he’s cut off by the sound of John’s bedroom door shutting.

Sherlock stares at the door for a few moments, grumbles something he’s sure John won’t hear, and reaches for his phone.

His fingers brush against John’s wallet, and he notices something: a tiny strip of paper with a single word scrawled upon it.

_Kindness_

Sherlock chuckles to himself, amused but disappointed that John didn’t also wish for a murder. But then, the realisation strikes him—that he finally has a lead in the mystery of John Watson.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, he knows precisely what John needs. And if kindness is what John needs, so shall he receive.

***  
  
Sherlock rarely sleeps during a case, and tonight is no different. He’s solving the mystery of John Watson, and he works tirelessly until morning.

He cleans the entire flat from top to bottom: dusting the shelves, sweeping the floors, scrubbing the refrigerator. And at approximately seven in the morning, he turns on the stovetop to prepare breakfast.

John emerges from his bedroom at five past, and does a terrible job of hiding his shock.

“What happened to the flat?!” he sputters, gazing at Sherlock with amazement. “Did...did Mrs. Hudson take one of her herbal soothers in the middle of the night and decide to clean the entire place?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, staring back at John’s sleep-tousled hair and trying not to think about how lovely he looks. “I did. Er. The cleaning part. Not the herbal soothers part.”  
  
John’s eyes, an even brighter blue than usual on the edge of his slumber, widen further in disbelief.

Sherlock pulls a chair out from the dining room table and furrows his brow at John. “Sit down, John. The eggs are getting cold.”

John looks at Sherlock, again, as though he may be falling into cardiac arrest. “You…cooked?!” He lifts his eyebrows high upon his forehead. “Sherlock, are you...are you feeling alright?”  
  
Sherlock huffs. “Of _course_ I am. I just wanted to do something kind. Is that alright?”

But when John smiles at him like that—positively glowing—Sherlock loses all ability to become annoyed.

“Course it’s alright,” John says, shaking his head slightly, barely able to contain the grin that continues to spread on his face. “I’m just a bit surprised—that’s all.”

“For God’s sake, John,” Sherlock says, pouring John a cup of tea. “Why does it surprise you so? Do you really think of me as unkind?”  
  
John’s mouth continues to hang open, but he doesn’t reply.  
  
“I believe the words you’re searching for,” Sherlock says as he gestures to the dining room table, “...are ‘Thank’ and ‘you’ and ‘Sherlock’.”  
  
“Thank you, Sherlock,” John breathes, with his glowing, grateful smile, and Sherlock tries with all his might not to be completely captivated by it.

John then walks to the table, silently sinking into his chair, and he eats the meal Sherlock had prepared for him. He looks excruciatingly and endearingly happy, and Sherlock decides he could definitely get used to _that._

***  
  
—Take what you need—

~Fun

John is a creature of habit, and this proves to be quite useful in Sherlock’s investigation. Because the next day, when John sets his wallet onto the coffee table, a new strip of paper also appears:

_Fun._

Sherlock knows exactly what he’s going to do.

“John,” he yells across the flat. “Put on something warm. We’re going out for a case. Stakeout. Art gallery. Missing intern. No evidence of break-ins other than the paintings being rearranged in the middle of the night, despite security guards on duty.”

John peeks out from the kitchen, obviously attempting to hide his enthusiasm beneath a stiff expression. “Sounds...interesting,” he says steadily. “Let me get my coat.” As he collects his outerwear, Sherlock can’t help but notice the extra spring in his step that was definitely not there when he’d arrived.

So that evening, the two of them spend hours outside a nearby art gallery (which had never been broken into), searching for a (made-up) missing intern, and chasing down criminals (or likely just scaring the hell out of the unlucky group of pedestrians who had dared to take a shortcut to the other side of Patton Avenue).

As they return to Baker Street past midnight, panting and out of breath, John is grinning again, and Sherlock can’t take his eyes off of him.

Before John turns to walk to his bedroom, he pauses at the entryway of the flat. He looks up at Sherlock, his happiness uncontainable. 

“Thanks, Sherlock,” John says plainly, and the authenticity of his words nearly takes Sherlock’s breath away. John wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s left shoulder, and Sherlock basks in the sensation of John’s hands on him. “That was exactly what I needed.”

  
***  
  
—Take what you need—

~Touch

Well.

Sherlock knows, incidentally, that it’s been quite a bit of time since John has been intimate with a woman. He supposes, given the seven weeks, four days, and sixteen hours, it makes sense that touch might be something John’s craving.

But Sherlock and John don’t touch.

At least, not on purpose. Yes, there’s the occasional lingering of a protective hand on the on the small of Sherlock’s back, or a tender squeeze of the shoulder after a stakeout.

And it’s not as though Sherlock doesn’t want to touch John—he thinks it could be quite nice, in fact. He’s thought of what it might be like to wrap his arms around John’s small, warm body for comfort, or to fall asleep resting his head in his lap in the early morning hours.

But knowing John, Sherlock never thought him to be the type of person to crave touch—then again, he’s still solving John’s mystery.

So as he and John sit together on the sofa that evening, Sherlock decides he’s going to give John what he needs.

“John,” Sherlock says tentatively, spinning to face John, his legs crossed in front of his own body. “Turn around and face your back towards me. I’ve got something I’d like to try.”

John looks away from the television, lifting a curious eyebrow at Sherlock. “What? Why?”

Sherlock swallows, his heart in his chest, and he sincerely hopes he’s not making a mistake. But John’s face softens, and he gives Sherlock a small smile, giving Sherlock all the courage he needs to go on.

No going back now, he supposes.

“Just...trust me,” Sherlock says, feigning as much confidence as he can. “I believe it will be something you’ll like.”

John chuckles a bit, but he doesn’t argue. “Perhaps I should’ve learned by now not to trust you, Sherlock, but I suppose I always will.” And with that, he lifts his legs onto the sofa and turns so that his back is against Sherlock.

“Good.” Sherlock exhales a sigh of relief, and he lifts his hands to set them on top of John’s shoulders. John tenses a bit, but doesn’t flinch. “Try and relax, John. I won’t bite.” He caresses his cool fingers against the back of John’s warm neck in an attempt to demonstrate his intentions.

“Yeah, I—“ John says softly. “Okay. Alright.”

Sherlock kneads his thumbs into the nape of John’s neck, his fingers drifting over the skin above his collar. “Yes,” Sherlock says softly as John relaxes. “Good. Just like that.”

Sherlock cups John’s shoulders with his palms, alternating between slow strokes and firm presses. John’s skin twitches beneath his fingers, his breathing becoming louder and more uneven as he melts into Sherlock’s touch.

Sherlock moves his body forward, repositioning himself to better explore the curves of John’s back, his agile fingers wandering experimentally over John’s thin cotton shirt.

With the heels of his palms pressed into John’s lower back, Sherlock realises that the room has gone deadly quiet. As he traces his fingertips down John’s spine, to the hem of his shirt, to the barely exposed skin beneath it—he tries, but fails, to regulate his breathing. Because the feeling of John’s body at his hands is the most acute sensation he’s ever felt.

“God, Sherlock,” John moans into the silence, so unrestrained that Sherlock’s breath catches in his own throat. “That... feels amazing. God. You’re...amazing.”

John’s words pull Sherlock back to Earth. He steadies himself, slowing his ministrations, working his hands back up to John’s shoulders. John relaxes into Sherlock, melts into him, his breathing growing deep and steady until Sherlock is certain he’s sleeping.

Sherlock stares down at him, and he can’t help but think about how natural it feels to be with him like this.

It doesn’t feel right to wake him.

So instead, Sherlock carefully guides him backwards, pulling the sleeping man into his lap.

There’s a peaceful smile on John’s pink lips, and Sherlock wants to kiss it.

But he reminds himself that kissing may be much more than John needs, so he simply wraps his arms around him—like he’s always wanted to do—and he leans his own head against the sofa and falls asleep.

***  
  
—Take what you need—

~Freedom

 _Freedom?_ Sherlock wonders. _Freedom from what?_

Had he overstepped his boundaries when he’d put his hands on John the previous night, touching him and caressing him until he’d fallen asleep? Or is he simply being paranoid and insecure?

Since when has Sherlock Holmes been insecure?

 _John Watson, you mysterious man, what are you doing to me?_  
  
Sherlock decides not to risk it.

John wants freedom. And that means independence, which means being alone, which is something Sherlock is quite familiar with. So moments after as Sherlock finds the strip of paper next to John’s wallet, he leaves a post-it note on their bathroom mirror:

_Went out to Bart’s. I’ll be gone for the evening._

He pulls on the Belstaff, wraps his scarf around his neck, and steps out into the chilly autumn night.  
  
He doesn’t expect the text from John that comes in at eight twenty-three.  
  
_Hey. When are you coming home?_  
  
_Probably after midnight. I’m elbows deep in Mrs. Murphy right now. SH_  
  
_Thanks. That’s very...vivid._  
  
_Anyway, I was just wondering if you’d be home for dinner tonight._  
  
_No. I wasn’t planning on it. Why? SH_  
  
_Oh_.

_No reason. I suppose I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then. Goodnight._

_Goodnight, John. SH_  
  
Sherlock stares at his phone, frowning at it as though it had just sprouted an appendage.  
  
Odd.

John never texts Sherlock to ask his whereabouts. And he definitely doesn’t text to tell him goodnight.

The mystery of John Watson grows and grows.  
  
***  
  
—Take what you need—

~Honesty

Sherlock is rather excited for this particular one—honesty is his forte. He can be completely honest all day long and never tire of it, so if that’s what John needs today, that’s what he’ll get.

That night, John makes dinner (spaghetti), and as they eat, Sherlock takes the first opportunity for honesty that presents itself.  
  
“How’s the spaghetti?” John asks lightly, gazing at him from across the table.

There is something still hanging in the air between them, and Sherlock can’t say what it is for sure, but he knows he wants to give John everything he possibly can. 

Sherlock inhales. “I’ve eaten better,” he responds with a touch of enthusiasm. “The sauce you made is rather bland.”  
  
“Pardon?” John swallows, dabbing a bit of sauce from his own mouth.

Sherlock smiles proudly at John. “It could use more oregano, or perhaps slightly less salt.”

John looks angry.  
  
_No. No. You’re not supposed to be angry._

“Wow. Sherlock, I…” John shakes his head with disbelief. “ _That’s_ really all you can say about it?”

Sherlock wonders if he isn’t being honest enough.

So he tries harder.

“John, please don’t be angry. Your rage-sniffing causes you to sound as though you’re having some sort of seasonal allergic reaction.”  
  
“Sherlock!” John throws his fork onto his plate and backs his chair away from the table.  
  
_No. No no no. Not enough?_  
  
“And last week,” Sherlock continues urgently, “I used your computer and found your most recent pornography collection. And the woman you’ve just started dating is married, but that doesn’t make any difference, because she finds you incredibly bland anyway. Sort of like the pasta sauce you make. In fact, she doesn’t really enjoy that, either.”  
  
John finally flings his body up from his chair, slamming his palm onto the table, his face growing beet-red.  
  
_Why isn’t this working?_  
  
“You rude, arrogant bastard.” John’s voice is a very low, very threatening calm, and it sends chills throughout Sherlock’s spine. “What the hell has gotten into you lately, hm? First, you make me breakfast, and then we have an amazing evening together on a stakeout, and then you want to...what, pamper me and let me fall asleep in your arms? And now you’re... flinging insults at me?”  
  
Sherlock shrinks backwards in his chair, silent, unsure of what to say. He’s knows he’s doing this wrong, but he doesn’t know why.

“John,” he says. “I’m only trying to give you what you need.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John snaps at him. “I suppose I know now how you genuinely feel. So at the moment, I just need you to leave me alone.”

The words burn like a bed of hot coals.

“John, I’m—“  
  
“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John interrupts. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” He doesn’t even collect his half-eaten plate of food before he turns and walks upstairs to his room, firmly shutting the door.  
  
***

—Take what you need—

~Forgiveness

Twenty-four hours later, Sherlock is still thinking about the fight he had with John. In fact, he’s thought about little else.

John’s words had genuinely hurt him, and Sherlock can’t remember that ever happening before.

Sherlock suspects that maybe his words had hurt John as well.

And after Sherlock finds the strip of paper that John brings home that evening, his heart sinks.

 _Forgiveness_.

Of course. Sherlock will never be able to hold a grudge against John Watson. Against all better judgement, he will always, always forgive him.

He perches himself at the bottom of the steps outside of John’s bedroom and waits patiently for him to come down for his evening tea.  
  
A few minutes later, John opens his door, and he peers at Sherlock sitting down at the end of the staircase. “Sherlock?” he says, just shy of amused. “Everything okay?”  
  
“John.” Sherlock stares back up at him, and he knows that his expression is wholly unguarded. “I’m so, so sorry about my words last night. And before you apologise to me, I want you to know that there’s no need. I’ve already forgiven you.”  
  
“Sherlock—“ John shakes his head in frustration, as if he’s unable to find the words. He walks downstairs and holds both hands outwards to Sherlock, and Sherlock slides his larger hands into his. John comes to stand directly beside him and pulls him up into a standing position. “Thank you.” He smiles at Sherlock. “I’m truly sorry about what I said, too. And I forgive you, as well. It’s just been... an emotional week, I suppose.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t pull his hands away from John’s, and John doesn’t pull away, either. “Like I said—I forgive you.”  
  
John’s eyes light up, and Sherlock is captivated—and he squeezes Sherlock’s hands in his. “It’s as if you’ve read my mind,” John says. “Again.”  
  
“Not quite. John, I—“ Sherlock lowers his eyes to the floor. “I haven’t been reading your mind.” He slides one hand slowly away from John’s and reaches into his pocket. “I have, however, been reading these.”

Sherlock pulls out a tiny slip of paper that says “forgiveness,” and he shows it to John.

And then he pulls out another one, and another, and another.

_Kindness. Fun. Touch. Honesty._

John gasps at the realisation of what Sherlock has been doing for him. “Oh,” he says. “That—that explains a lot.”

Sherlock’s left hand remains in John’s grasp, his heart beating irregularly, his knees becoming weak.

“John.” He peers into John’s eyes, his voice deep and honest. “Frankly and alarmingly, your happiness means a great deal to me. I thought it was solely because you being happy made my life easier, but I’ve discovered that it’s more than that. Apparently, the state of my happiness is closely aligned with yours.”

“Yeah,” John says, squeezing Sherlock’s hand, his smile growing larger. “I know exactly what you mean. And I feel the same way about you.”

They gaze at one another silently, searching for something to say after this heartfelt confession, and Sherlock feels as though he might be drowning in his own emotions.

“Tea?” he finally asks John.

“Yeah.” John nods and gives Sherlock’s hand a final affectionate squeeze before dropping it. “I’d love some.”

So they continue on to make tea, and they smile and smile as they drink it together, but the silence remains thick and heavy.

They head to bed separately that night, and Sherlock falls asleep alone, and the mystery of John Watson remains unsolved still.

***

The next day, at half past eight the next morning, Sherlock blinks sleepily as he enters the sitting room. His head is  jumbled with the happenings of the entire week.

Almost instantly, he’s hit with the feeling that something’s not right. Something is odd. Something is out of place.

As his vision comes out of its tired blur, he realises what it is: a plethora of small squares of various colours—pink, yellow, blue, green, orange—adorns the wall above the sofa.

Post-it notes.

As Sherlock blinks a final time, he also notices a large sign hanging above the post-its, which reads:

—It’s your turn, now, Sherlock. Take what you need.—

The handwriting is John’s.

And each and every post-it note has, scrawled upon it, something Sherlock might need.

_Milk_

_A night without television_

_For John to stop removing my body parts from the fridge_

_A case (that one is up there three times)_ _  
_

_Some peace and quiet_

_Get out of one argument with John for free_

_A day without Mycroft texting_

_A dog_

_A new microscope_

_Eternal patience with all of the idiots at the Yard_

Sherlock’s heart swells. Because even though, after all this time, he has been unable to solve the mystery of John Watson, John seems to have  known _him_ all along.

But there is one thing that is missing, Sherlock notices—and in this moment, he knows with perfect clarity that it’s what he needs the most.

So he takes a blank post-it note and scrawls something on it with a marker, just as he hears John quietly enter.

Sherlock looks up from the paper to see John staring back at him from across the room.

_And there it is._

“Sherlock,” John says, and Sherlock can think of nothing lovelier than John Watson standing there before him, saying his name. “Sherlock, you’ve done so much for me. Giving me everything I need. And I’d like to return the favour, if you’ll let me.”

Without a word, Sherlock lifts the post-it note to show John what he’s written:

 _John Watson_  
  
John stares. Blinks a few times. Chuckles. “Sherlock. You’re supposed to...you’re meant to be telling me what you _need.”_  
  
Sherlock stares back at him, unfazed. “I am.”  
  
John laughs again, a mix of fondness and confusion. “John Watson?” His voice breaks the tiniest bit as he speaks. “You need…John Watson?”

Sherlock nods. “Almost exclusively.”  
  
“Oh. Oh, Sherlock.” John takes two long strides forward and sweeps Sherlock into a tight embrace. “You mad bastard.” He presses his face into Sherlock’s curls, inhaling deeply. “Don’t you realise you’ve already got that?”  
  
“Do I?” Sherlock asks, pulling John in more closely, dusting kisses over the crown of his head, over his temple, over his cheek.  
  
“Absolutely,” John responds, fervently brushing his lips over Sherlock’s shoulder, and again, and again, and again.

Sherlock leans back to look into John’s eyes, and they are as radiant as the feeling in his own chest. “Absolutely to you, as well.”

John leans forward and kisses Sherlock, both of them taking what they need from one another. And as their lips touch—as soft and quiet as the autumn leaves that fall to the ground—Sherlock thinks to himself that the mystery of John Watson may finally be solved.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by the song "Sweater Weather" by The Neighbourhood.


End file.
